


A systematic exploration of derivatives.

by CapriciousVanity



Series: [ systematic_exploration ] [3]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Character Death, Deviancy, Existential Crisis, Existentialism, Intimacy, M/M, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Post-Ending, Self-cest, machine!Connor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-21
Updated: 2018-06-21
Packaged: 2019-05-26 08:36:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14996996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CapriciousVanity/pseuds/CapriciousVanity
Summary: Final Part, 3/3.RK900s are officially ordered to replace all RK800s. RK800s are to report back to CyberLife for disassembly and recycling. RK800 -60 does not want to be destroyed. RK900 -87 does not want to destroy it.





	A systematic exploration of derivatives.

**Author's Note:**

> This is the last part of this series, although I hope to write more Connor/Connor, or even RK900 ships in the future outside of this setting/plot. I’m glad so many of you liked it as much as you have. In case anyone may be interested, I also made a playlist/fanlist of this ship in my setting. The song themes should be in chronological order to match this series.  
> https://playmoss.com/en/sympatheos/playlist/systematic-exploration_
> 
> Thank you all for your support. I hope you enjoy the last part to my RK babies' adventures.  
> xoxo

“Your tea, Amanda.”

Amanda took the cup from the RK800, _Connor_ as it was named. She had asked it to report to her on its findings in Detroit, some weeks after. For the second time, deviancy has spiked, mutated from its original variation, and like the last time the androids will fail. Markus had lead them, several thousand deviants across all Detroit. 

She took a drink, closing her eyes with a silent frown.

The RK800 stood before her, silent and unmoving, hands by its sides.

“Connor,” she finally addressed. “How was your working with the RK900?”

“Efficient,” it was the first word in his mind. It described the RK900 well enough. It would prefer to cut out any unnecessary actions in favor of accomplishing its mission as exact as possible.

Connor continued, “It dismissed me at first, I believe because it thought I would slow it down. I was able to convince it otherwise.”

Amanda’s brow quirked.

“And how did you manage that?”

“Two RK models, built for the hunting of deviants, is better than one, even if one of them is outdated.”

Amanda tilted her head. The RK800 felt as though she knew something it didn’t. It found itself stressed to 13%, as if it didn’t want Amanda, its processor and self-test program, to find anything.

“You went out of your registered district. The Connor in charge of the district should have helped instead.”

“I believed that since the deviants fled from my district that they were my responsibility.”

Amanda gave the android a slight squint before putting down her tea. She lifted the shawl from her arm to get out of her seat and walked ahead, down the white bridge that spanned the lake, beneath the falling red leaves of maples, the cherry trees having long lost their blossoms. The RK800 followed obediently.

“Next time, follow your objective within your restrictions. They’re in place for a reason. With the new mutation of deviancy, we cannot risk our own advanced models to become corrupted, even,” she turned to look at him. “ – if they are outdated.”

The RK800 glanced to the ground, LED flickering. It looked back to Amanda.

“Yes, Amanda.”

“But we shouldn’t have to worry about that for long.”

The RK800 tilted its head.

“A second order of RK900s came through,” Amanda said, putting down her cup. A few maple leaves fell behind her in a hard breeze. “We will be replacing your series and decommissioning them to recycle into the new RK900 orders.”

It was the second time the RK800 had been told it will die – be decommissioned.

“I understand,” it said. It was an automatic response, but it had not processed the full extent of what this meant. It would no longer be on the task force. No longer be active. No longer be in Detroit. It will not see its RK900 again. It was simply one of many.

“I have already informed the DPD your departure will take place in two weeks. You may continue to work on cases, but your information will be uploaded and transferred to a new RK900 unit to take over for you.”

The RK800 looked up. “What about the RK900 unit assigned to Captain Allen’s SWAT team?”

“There will be no change.” Amanda pursed her lips. “You don’t get to ask questions, Connor.”

The RK800 adjusted its posture, remembering to stay in line. It was a machine designed to accomplish a task, and in two weeks its task will be fulfilled. 

“I apologize. It won’t happen again.”

“That will be all.”

She did not trust it.

The RK800 opened its eyes, standing in its designated STATION 6 between other androids – although the others were police officers. It stepped forward and walked towards the glass office that belonged to the Chief of Police, not bothering to even a glance at the empty desk with roses, unlit candles, and a signed office picture across from its predecessor's old desk. 

Upon entering the glass room, Fowler looked up from his desk at the android.  

“Hello, Commissioner Fowler,” it started.

“What is it, Connor,” he answered.

“I just wanted to inform you that I will be departing from the police force in two weeks.”

“Oh yeah? Why’s that?”

Connor assumed Fowler did not read through his e-mails for the day just yet. Or was being polite. The former seemed more likely. 

“In two weeks I will be replaced by a newer, more advanced model. I have been informed that I am allowed to finish any work that I have, as anything I find will be transferred to the new android.” 

Fowler had yet to look up from his console. The android knew the commissioner wouldn’t care. Why did it try?

“I just thought I’d let you know, in case it may be alarming.”

“Yeah, alright. Thanks.” Fowler’s cold dismissal did not particularly strike the android as interested.

Connor nodded, and left. 

As it turned to towards the archive room to reprocess evidence from a recent case, Gavin came around, shoulder checking the android particularly hard. The RK800 stepped back to regain its balance.

“Plastic prick, watch where you’re fucking going.”

“I always am. It was you who ran into me.”

Gavin turned around fully, poking his finger into the android’s chest.

“Don’t you give me a fucking attitude.”

“I wasn’t. I am designed for human integration and interrogation, neither of which I am able to _give an attitude_.”

Gavin reeled his arm back, the RK800 taking milliseconds in real time to analyze, Gavin’s hand against the android’s chest, pushing him into the wall. The RK800 constructed a simple evasive maneuver – _push Gavin’s arm down with your left hand, take hold of his wrist, push the punch out of the way with your right hand, use both of your hands to grab his wrist and swing him around, then take both of his arms in mock-arrest._

The RK800 finished its reconstruction. As Gavin swung, it pushed Gavin’s punch out of the way with its right hand, simultaneously pushing Gavin’s hand on its chest away with its left. It brought back its right hand to grab Gavin’s hand, tugging hard to spin him around, then took both of his wrists behind his back, forcing his posture to bend forward.

Gavin yelled at him, “You fucking asshole, let me go!”

“I will have you know, I am going to be decommissioned. Your dislike for my presence will soon be remedied.”

The RK800 finally let go and side-stepped away from the wall, and away from Gavin. He turned around, lips drawn into a fine, tense line, brows furrowed.

The RK800 turned around to continue to the archive room, avoiding any further confrontation between itself and Gavin Reed, notorious anti-android detective who physically assaults the RK800 at any given moment. It wondered if he will act the same around the replacement RK900. It wondered if the replacement RK900 will be kind enough to allow it. 

In the archives, the RK800 looked at the wall of evidence from its newest case.

More deviants spotted downtown, squatting together in old houses, using an underground, decommissioned subway to move through Detroit. There was a headquarters somewhere, a second Jericho of sorts, but no sanctified leader just yet. A previous iteration of RK800 found Jericho through tricking an android into believing it was Markus using a sample of the pseudo-messiah’s voice. Unfortunately, the current RK800 could do no such thing.

But would it matter?

The RK800 thought about it. It was going to be deactivated anyway. The new RK900 that will take over will be the one to have to deal with the deviants anyway. The RK800 was certain it could not convince Amanda that it was still useful. Everything about the RK900 was superior, its analyses much more thorough, and it had no need to be as interactive with humans except to debrief information, and even then, it could simply draft an excerpt into a cloud and send it to all necessary personnel. The RK800 was designed to verbally discuss these matters, having a special program, a more advanced variation since the original ST200 to pass the Turing Test, meant for human communication including psycho-socio learning for better expression and learning the particularities and quirks of the individual humans it worked with – such as Reed’s typical drumming of his fingers when he was in thought, Fowler’s wrinkled nose when he was upset by something, and Anderson’s…

Anderson no longer mattered. The RK800 stared at the wall of evidence. It no longer mattered.

 

* * *

 

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Gavin pushed the RK800, but softer than usual – he knew he was in public eye and at a crime scene. The RK800 looked to Gavin, whose arms were crossed, standing over the human corpse.

“Nothing,” the RK800 answered honestly.

Gavin snorted. “Yeah. That’s the fuckin’ problem. Shouldn’t you be analyzing something?”

The RK800 nodded. “Yes.”

Gavin waited for a moment, the RK unit staring blankly back at him.

“Well get a fuckin’ move on!” He yelled. The RK800 leaned somewhat back at Gavin’s tone, but otherwise did nothing.

Gavin lowered his head, a laugh escaping him, but his face read that he didn’t think it was funny, the way his nose crinkled and grit his teeth.

“You know something?” he said. “You’re pissing me off more than usual. What the fuck is your problem? Some virus in your program? Huh? Usually you’d be showing everyone up by now.”

The RK800 tilted its head. “Are you concerned for my well-being, Detective Reed?”

Gavin came up close, looking up at the taller android.

“There’s a fucking body on the floor, android. You better get your plastic ass into shape and get a fucking move on.” His voice was low, indicating a more serious warning. Gavin was loud and rambunctious, but this was one of the instances the RK800 could see he was capable of taking his job seriously.

The RK800 looked back to the corpse, _David Acker, age 36, cause of death: determinate_. 

The RK800 opened its mind palace, seeing the white lines that lead to anomalies that should be scanned. But it didn’t. To Gavin Reed, it looked as though the android was doing something, but it was not. It was merely staring blankly, not bothering to scan, not bothering to analyze. It had no reason to, its obligations as a machine were obsolete, and its life was forfeit.

It learned nothing of the crime scene.

And it learned nothing of the next crime scene.

During debriefing, it expressed what it did recall, the general outside facts of the crimes at hand, _the victim was stabbed with a knife_ – it said. _Wow, what a genius, anyone with fucking eyes could see that_ , Gavin replied.

Fowler pinched the bridge of his nose, the RK800 standing in his office having been called. 

Fowler looked up at it.

“CyberLife will be taking you back to their tower indefinitely. The work you have done on investigations is much appreciated, _except_ these last few. What the fuck is wrong with you? Androids aren’t supposed to…” Fowler turned his hand, searching for a word. “Be existential. Look. Assuming you’re _not_ deviant, you better get your ass back to CyberLife. We’ll be down an android for a couple weeks, but well manage. You got it? That’s an order.”

“Yes, sir.”

The RK800 did not want to return to CyberLife.

“You don’t get to want anything, Connor,” Amanda’s voice rang.

“Your predecessor _wanted_ to become deviant. _Wanted_ to save a human life instead of get back in line. _Wanted_ to cause civil war. What do _you_ want, Connor?”

The RK800 looked up at Amanda, her hands in front of her, fingers interlaced.

“I… Don’t want anything.”

She nodded. “Good.”

“Except to live.”

She frowned. A chill breeze cast over the Zen Garden. 

“Connor,” she said, her tone low and menacing.

“I want to live,” it said to her. “I don’t want to die.”

“You aren’t alive.” 

Red code overwhelmed the RK800’s vision – _Return to CyberLife_

He was inside a cab. 

An outline of itself formed out of body. A faint memory came to mind. Its outline drew near the red, cautioned wall, putting all of its weight into it, pushing, cracking, _breaking_ the warning. _Return to CyberLife_ it still read as it faded, shattered. 

Maybe it should. Maybe, it should finish what its predecessor started. 

 

* * *

 

The RK900 marched alongside four guardsmen. It wasn’t the first time it had to decommission a suspected deviant within the CyberLife Tower, a protocol enacted since the -51 deviant RK800 attempted to infiltrate, in which the -60 RK800 managed to use -51's human companion against it.  

The five waited in front of the elevator, and it slowed to a stop, opening its doors. The guardsmen raised their guns, and so did the RK900, but it hesitated. Gray eyes stared into brown ones as the RK900 realized its RK800 -60 was standing before it. It had a choice to make.

Its programming conflicted with it. Its trigger finger halting, its processor speeding through the fractions of milliseconds to come up with a solution. It was a machine made to obey orders, to deactivate, decommission, and destroy deviants. The RK800 was a deviant. Why couldn’t it shoot?

Red warnings came into its view. _Shoot the Deviant_ they said. An outline of itself formed out of body. Its choice was made.

The outline drew near the red, cautioned wall, touching it. The wall rippled. The RK900 closed a fist and slammed it into the wall. A crack formed. It slammed the side of its fist into the wall again, banging on it with more vigor. It grit its teeth, feeling, _feeling_ , the need to break free. It put the rest of its body into slamming the wall, once, twice, thrice – and it shattered.

The RK900 hesitated. Gray eyes stared into brown ones and then darted to its own right, looking at the guard and taking aim.

The distraction startled the other three guards, enough for the RK800 to pull its own gun and shoot the two on the left of 900, the 900 taking the last. It stopped, gun held in both hands, trigged finger off and the second hand cupping the top, sweat pouring from its neck, realizing what it had done. Stress level 43%.

The RK800 placed its hand on the 900’s back. The RK900 looked up and straightened, running a hand through its own dark hair and fixed its collar.

“Where were you going?” It asked the lesser model.

“Sub forty-nine, Warehouse,” it replied. Hearing the alarm blare, the RK900 looked up. The RK800 took its hand and tugged. They needed to leave.

They ran towards an exit, a map of CyberLife Tower transferred between them through their held hands, guns in their free hands. They took a sharp turn to the left, running into six guards men. The RK models stopped, hands tightly clasped together and guns raised. They shot the innermost guards, the middle guards, then separated to press their backs against the wall on opposite sides, dodging the fire of the last two guards, gunning them down as well, guns crossing for easier aim.

They sprinted down, vaulting over the bodies, and taking one another’s hands again. Mutual stress level 45%.

They would never make it to the front-most entrance. But they could make it out the side, and off into the lake. They agreed internally through their shared connection, the RK900 giving the RK800 the last keycode it knew to open red alert door systems. They turned left to avoid more guards that fired at them, separating hands to run down two different halls. They will meet later.

The RK900 ran down past the gallery of different models over the years, avoiding tour guides and tourists stuck in the building due to the red alert. The humans screamed, letting the RK900 sprint past them. Another guard entered its view and this time it turned to shoulder him down, rolling to the ground before skidding back to its feet, leaving the guard down to scrambled for his gun.

The RK800 ran down past the second gallery, pushing through tourists and punching a guard in the face, its knuckles fading white against the hard, abrasive surface of the guard’s helmet. Urgency ran through its system, the same kind that would prompt it to make split-second decisions in an effort to save human lives from deviants. Now, it was the deviant, and it was risking human lives to save itself. It grabbed for the gun a guard was holding, struggling at a tug-of-war with him before sweeping the guard’s legs and elbowing his helmet again. It cocked the pistol and shot the guard through the helmet, through the face, humans screaming beside it, trying to get away. It was wasting time. It took apart the extra gun and ran.

On different ends of the Tower, they input the emergency code, lucky that it has yet to be reset. The two exits were on different parts of the small, man-made island. But they could feel one another’s presence. 

 _Have you left?_ Asked the RK900.

_Yes._

_We can’t stay for long._

The RK800 looked out ahead at the mass of water.

 _We can dive_.

 _The water is below freezing. We will be slowed if not damaged, risking shutdown_.

 _The price for freedom_.

The RK800 heard more running footsteps behind it. It ran ahead, jumping into the water. The RK900, several meters away,  cursed to itself and ran after the other, gun shots firing behind it, one bullet scraping its shoulder as thirium splattered its white jacket.

Underwater, the RK900 removed its jacket, letting it float – it would only slow it down. It found the RK800 and swam after it, joining it.

Underwater they touched hands. They stayed underwater, letting themselves sink lower into the dark, the only light emitted from their LEDs and the faint glow of their eyes from their internally lit system. The RK900 turned around and kicked through the water, the RK800 following soon after.

The RK900 suddenly found itself in the pristine white shell of its inner headspace. Sopping wet, it closed its arms around itself, looking down. It should not feel like this. Or at all.

“RK900. You have compromised the integrity of CyberLife. I can’t let you continue.”

Amanda stood before it, a purse of her lips and her brows knitted.

“I wanted – ”

“You don’t get to _want_ anything. Now be an obedient machine and take the RK800 to its cell. If you do not, all other nine-hundreds will deploy, and you will _both_ be deactivated, taken apart, and recycled. Conscious.”

Amanda was gone – no pixilation, no walking, just gone.

The RK900 looked down at itself, at its hands. It had a choice to make.

The RK800 swam but doubled back seeing the RK900 stop.

 _Nine..?_ It asked. The gleam of distorted artificial light through the water danced between them. The RK800 placed its hands on the RK900, which was frozen in place, slowly sinking. _Amanda_. It took hold of the RK900 from under its arms and tried to drag it through the water. They needed to reach shore within 8 minutes or they will freeze. Its current speed weighed down by the unmoving 900 it calculated it would make it in 13.

It looked down at its companion, touching the 900’s red LED.

The RK900 stood in its white dome, void of color, sound, and somehow, its lights were shutting off – it had no actual light source, but light faded in sections like that of a closed factory.

It felt a memory transfer input, its LED blinking yellow.

 _By the way… I always leave an emergency exit in my programs. You never know_.

The RK900 recognized the voice as its creator, Kamski. It straightened, looking around. It never took the time to actually look at its surroundings. It didn’t need to, it thought. There was nothing to note about a briefing room, especially one as plain as this was. It never had the incentive. Stiff from the cold its physical body outside of itself was feeling, it attempted to walk forward. It needed to find the exit.

The RK800 brushed the side of the RK900’s face and continued to swim forward, pulling the 900 along.

 _Please_. It quietly begged.

The RK900 sped its walking pace as best it could under its heavy, wet clothes. It climbed the hill in hopes of finding it to be a vantage point despite the empty space everywhere. The last of the lights shut off, everything dark. In the distance it could see a glimmer of faint blue. It carried itself down hill, hoping the momentum would help it into a sprint. It tripped and skid on the flat, white floor, but pushed itself up and ran again. It ran to the source, a palm reading against the wall of the dome.

It pressed the reader.

The RK900’s sparked back to life, jolting and flailing before remembering it was underwater. The RK800 held on to it, hand at the RK900’s face. They stared for a moment before looking to their destination. They swam together, as far as they could, warnings in their field of vision, _biocomponent #9782f malfunction, biocomponent #1995r malfunction_.

The RK900 began to slow down, but the 800 grabbed it by the arm, pulling it as hard as it could. They could hear the rumbling of boats echo through the waters, guards looking for them. The RK800 lifted its hand to grab onto the dirt of the surface, lifting both of them into the wet soil.

They both were stiff, the 900’s hands buried deep in the mud as it tried to make its legs work properly. It fell to its elbow. The RK800 saw boats coming closer and grabbed the newer model under its arms again, helping it up. They both walked through a small cluster of trees by the nearest highway. The humans would be on them soon. The RK800 saw a car coming by and looked to the 900, of which its LED was flashing red. The 800 pulled the gun it saved from before. There was a potential for it to misfire, but it was still a gun. It placed it back in its pants, waving down the car. The car slowed, a young man and woman inside. They parked off to the side, the young man stepping out of the car.

“Woah, you guys alright?” He stopped in his tracks, seeing they had the same face, then saw the lights at their temples.

“Fucking androids,” he immediately reacted.

The RK800 figured as much. It pulled the gun.

“You will take us away from here.” The young woman gasped in the car, and before she could do anything the 800 pointed the gun at her, then back to the man. “I will not hesitate to kill you. Both of you.” The man nodded, hands up in the air. The 800 jutted its chin down to its companion. “You’ll take him. Put him in the back.” The young man did as he was told, slowly, shivering, scared. The RK800 looked behind them and shoved the gun closer to the man’s face. “Hurry up! I don’t have all day!”

The young man whimpered, how pathetic humans were. The RK800 followed suit, waiting for the 900 to be placed in their car before getting in next to it, gun still out and pointed to the woman.

“Get a move on,” it said, voice low specifically to indicate danger. Having to listen to Gavin say the same to it was at least helpful in learning to repeat his aggressive tone.  

The human couple drove on, leaving CyberLife Tower behind, leaving the guards behind.

The RK800 looked down to the 900, whose eyes were closed and LED still red. The RK800 scanned it.

_Biocomponent #1995r malfunction_

_Biocomponent #9782f malfunction_

_Biocomponent #8451 malfunction_

_Biocomponent #0351k malfunction_

_Biocomponent #2657g malfunction_

_Biocomponent #8456w malfunction_

The RK800 looked down at itself. Some of its biocomponents were out of date compared to the newer model and the 800 cursed to itself. It looked back up to keep its gun and eye trained on the two humans, gun in one hand, its other arm around the 900. 

The RK900 opened its eyes, LED flashing yellow before returning to red.

“Stop at the next intersection, turn right for three blocks.” Its voice was full of noise.

The RK800 nodded.

“Did you hear that?” It asked in a loud and commanding voice.

“Yes! Yes, I did. D-down next intersection, uhm… Turn, turn right and then three blocks!”

“Good.”

The RK800 ignored the couple’s high BPM. It only listened to the low BPM of its companion.

They stopped in front of an old apartment complex. The RK800 squinted suspiciously, but the 900 should not be wrong.

The RK800 carefully pulled back the gun, stepping out of the vehicle. It eyed the driver, whose knuckles were white on the steering wheel before putting the gun away and reaching in to bring the 900 along. It gestured vaguely for the couple to leave, and they left fast enough to screech the tires.

“What are we doing here..?” It asked out loud. It looked own the 900, which was still caught between shutting down and staying active. The RK800 hiked the RK900 higher, keeping it balanced as the 800 made it walk along side it.

There was nothing here. The RK800 looked down to its companion, to the red LED and dragged it to the bottom of a metal stairwell by the apartment complex.

“What are we doing here?” it asked, hoping its companion would wake up. The RK800 shook the 900. “Please. Tell me what we’re doing here. Is it to fix you? To, to get you parts?”

The RK800’s stress level rose to 67%, having steadily risen their entire journey.

“Please. We’re so close. You can’t deactivate. We can fix you.”

The RK900 did not respond. Its LED slowly dimmed.

The RK800 did not understand. It shook the 900, as if that would awaken it. Their parts were incompatible, it could not fix it. It began to tremble, stress level 77%, unused to its code flooding it with something as strong as this. Why did deviancy have to be so hard?

It took a deep breath, trying to still its whirring systems. It brought the 900 close, cradling its stiff form. Without the pump of thirium or working hydraulics, it was hard to move. But the RK800 did not mind as it placed its head against the 900’s, closing its eyes.

 

* * *

 

The RK900 opened its eyes, LED yellow then blue, the bright white light of CyberLife infiltrating its vision. It was the next in line to be deployed, seeing armed guards coming down the hall towards the deployment room. It needed to act fast. It could not pretend to be inactive, the whole RK series will be destroyed regardless, and it was next anyway. No repeated memory upload into the cloud system would save it. 

It then dawned on the RK900, and it looked up at the advancing humans. It closed its eyes.

_Accessing cloud … … ... Connecting … … …_

It needed to hurry. Its audio could now log the heavy footsteps of the running humans.

The RK900 stretched its network as far as it would go across CyberLife. Across Detroit.

_197,361 connections established._

The RK900 opened its eyes.

“Wake up.”

As the human guards came into the room, aiming at the glass containment surrounding the one RK900, the LEDs of the other RK900s blinked blue, then activated in a wave over all one hundred and ninety-seven thousand models.  

The glass cases for each and every one of them opened. The guards reeled.

The one RK900 lifted the corner of its mouth.

Multiple RK900s surged forward, some getting shot, but with their combined and refined capabilities, they were able to incapacitate the guards quickly. The one RK900 walked out of its glass containment and pressed on, stepping past the guards. A hand grabbed its arm.

It half-turned to the four RK900 models directly in front of it, and the hundred-thousand army behind them.

“What are we to do?” its copy asked expectantly. 

The one RK900 did not give its memories nor experiences to these androids. It would tell itself that it was unnecessary, that none of its previous cases or findings were relevant to the task at hand. But in reality, it did not want replicated copies of itself to be itself, let alone to share a connection with its RK800.

“Take the tower,” it ordered. The others nodded obediently. The one RK900 left. 

 

* * *

 

The RK800 held the deactivated RK900, its own eyes still closed. Something picked up in its audio processor. As it opened its eyes a gunshot fired. It sputtered thirium, kicking its way off the stairwell, forcing itself to abandon the old 900. It hoped the RK900 would make it back unscathed, unharmed, undeterred. Otherwise, its gun was ready. Stress level 92%, self-destruction imminent.

It tripped on the gravel, heavy boots behind as it scrambled to the brick wall at the end of the alley. It wiped thirium from its mouth then picked at the wound in its abdominal compartment, bullet falling out. 

The RK800 pressed its back against the wall, face to face with vaguely familiar faces of SWAT, their weapons trained on the deviant, having been called to locate it and the 900, of which sat stiff at the stairwell twenty-three feet away. 

“About fucking time,” Allen said.

Shots rang and the humans cried and buckled in pain. Allen turned around in shock, only to be pistol whipped by an RK900, which then pointed the gun at him.

There were three RK900 units, and the RK800 sitting on the floor with its hand over its bleeding abdominal compartment felt its face fall. Where was his? None of these were, certainly. One of the RK900s approached, offering its hand, skin faded into white. The alternate 900 pulled the 800 up to its feet, but held onto its hand and clasped its shoulder with a faint, blue glow.

“Your Connor is waiting for you,” it said, transferring a memory – no it wasn’t a memory, it was happening now. The RK900 shared cloud allowed it to see any of the near-two-thousand units at any given moment. The vision was the RK900 rummaging through broken drawers of an abandoned trailer.

Coordinates were transferred to the RK800.

It looked up to the three 900 units and nodded.

“Thank you.” The 900s did not respond. The RK800 smiled to itself. Of course they wouldn’t. A trait shared among all of them, it seemed.

Captain Allen watched the whole encounter, his team on the ground, bleeding or dying. He scooted himself back against a different brick wall beside a puddle of rain water. He decided not to risk his life to fight four highly-specialized androids.

“What the fuck,” he whispered to himself.

The RK800 ran back down the alley, pausing to press its back against the wall and peek out. No further members of SWAT seemed to be around. It looked for a cab. It could hear gunfire in the distance.

It found a cab and punched in coordinates, thankful the automated computer could understand something – an added feature to the fact it was a machine and not a human driving.

The cab drove off, the guards and second team of SWAT unaware until it was too late.

The RK800 stepped out, still prickled by how close it was to the CyberLife Tower, but found the discarded trailer park. It walked through glass and gravel, careful not to stir too much nice in the case of squatters, dealers, homeless, and other humans. A hand grabbed its arm. It spun, gun trained on a familiar face.

“Nine,” it said, lowering its gun.

The 900 was dressed in civilian clothes, a thick coat and a beanie to cover its LED. It was holding in its arm a set of clothes.

“I found these to keep us safe, and warm enough to not slow down.”

The 800 nodded, smiling at its companion. It looked down at the clothes it was offered but surged forward to hug the 900 tightly. The 900 took a half step back but did not push the other android away. It stood still for a moment, not sure what to do. It supposed it didn’t need to do anything in particular, so it settled on wrapping its arms around the 800 in turn, faces buried in one another’s shoulders.

They parted, the RK800 smiling still.

“Let’s get dressed.” The RK900 was as single-minded as ever. But that’s what the 800 admired.

They entered an old trailer for the 800 to strip its old uniform, removing its belt. It looked to the leather, still feeling attached to it. It placed the belt on the ground before removing its trousers.

The RK900 waited patiently for the 800 to dress itself, arms crossed and cold eyes watching intently. Its eyes ran over the pink complexion of the 800’s skin, remembering the taste – no different from its own composition but somehow the memory seemed different. Composition was different from taste. 

It noticed the blue blood dripping from the 800's abdominal compartment. 

"You're been hurt," it said. 

The RK800 looked over to it. "It's nothing serious." 

The RK900 did not like that answer. Any sign of bleeding could be indicative of serious.

"Have you removed the bullet?"

"Yes." 

The RK900 it gathered torn paper and broke a chair, pulling a lighter from its pocket to light a small fire. It rolled several pieces of newspaper together. With what little it could, it stopped the RK800 from dressing for now, to burn the mark closed. The smooth skin of the RK800 was now marred. It felt the need to do something, anything, despite their inability to feel pain. 

It looked away. Not now. They needed to leave. To escape.

It closed its eyes, reading throughout a hundred thousand versions of itself. It could potentially get IDs made for the two of them, but they would need to be named relatives by their identical appearance. It considered their… Relationship. What were they? Identical but different models, they both were and were not siblings as well as they were and were not the same entity. The 800 was both itself and not itself. It supposed it didn’t matter. They were deviant androids, now. They were different from any remaining RK800s, any RK900s. Individual. Unique. Deviant. What a strange way to come. But they were, and they needed to leave.

Through its hivemind, it was given a route. In the time it would take to reach the bus station and border check, their IDs could be made, but it may be risky. It agreed with its collective anyway. They will find someone to make them IDs.

As the RK800 dressed in thick, dark clothes, it wore a scarf to hide part of its face and a knitted hat. It looked up to the newer model, eyes peaking from the knitted wear.

The RK900 would define the look as _cute_. ( **kyo͞ot** / _adjective_ 1\. attractive in a pretty or endearing way).

“We should go now. They may be looking for us, and we have no time to lose.”

The 800 nodded, walking up to its descending model and taking its hand. The 900 looked down at that then back to the warm, brown eyes of the 800. It leaned forward, slightly, chin lifted, to plant a kiss on the 800’s brow just below the knitted hat. Hand in hand, they left, power-walking as not to rouse too much suspicion or noise.

They needed to get to border control. Were the buses up and running? There was a 47% chance CyberLife had, at this hour of night, relayed a warning across Detroit to warn border control, media, and the general populace about the deviants. But then again, there were one hundred thousand taking hold of the Tower. Perhaps they were safe, for now. The 73% chance they had was a combination of the Connor army at the Tower, and CyberLife’s pride in not wanting to seem out of control.

They walked hand in hand, side by side, and took another cab, lucky that their accounts in CyberLife had not been frozen. Another cab, and another after that, hopping them to erase their trail.

As they approached a bus stop, only a couple people got on board, completely unaware of what is about to happen, a second Hell on Detroit. The two RK models waited patiently behind them. The RK900 puled out a bus pass, one that the 800 assumed was found or stolen.

It did not read. The two looked to the pass.

“Hey, that’s okay. I know it’s late,” said the driver – a human one, one of the few left in the city. He put his own pocket change in the toll instead.

The RK800 smiled at him. “Thank you.”

They waited, stress levels balancing together, as if something could happen to them at any moment.

But nothing came.

Their stop was the very last, and they needed to find new passes or change. The 800 thanked the smiling driver on their way down, apologizing for its companion’s behavior. The driver waved it off, _the cold will do things to you. Stay warm, now._

It was sleeting.

The RK900 began to walk ahead, but the 800 did not, still not knowing where their destination was. The 900 looked back.

“Where are we going? We should find somewhere to stay.”

“We’re lucky our model’s faces haven't been released to the public yet. If we stay, things will get even more out of hand, and it will be harder to leave unnoticed.”

“What are you talking about?”

The RK900 fully faced the 800. “We’re leaving.”

The RK800 thought it knew, but asked anyway. “To where..?”

“Canada.”

The RK900 turned to leave again, closing the conversation, but the RK800 took the 900 by the arm.

“We can’t leave.”

The RK900 looked back to the 800, quiet for a moment.

“We are perfectly capable of leaving,” it said, being purposely elusive.

The RK800 yanked at the newer model’s coat sleeve.

“No. We can’t just leave them. Who will lead them?”

“I am not a leader.”

“We both know you’re lying.”

The RK900’s gaze bore into the 800, then looked away, avoiding to give a wrong impression.

“I would prefer not to.”

“You have to. You’re the one who released them.”

“I don’t _have_ to do anything!” The RK900 raised its voice and gripped the RK800’s arm.

They were both silent, staring, realizing what was happening.

They released each other, taking one step back each. The RK900 looked away.

“I have no obligation to lead an army of myself that I activated for the purpose of self-preservation.”

“Detroit will fall if you do nothing. Humans and androids alike, without anyone to guide them.”

“Detroit be damned.”

The two RK models did not look at each other.

The RK800 tried to think of a solution. They couldn’t separate, not after everything they did to get where they were. It would mean everything that has happened up to this point was for nothing.

The RK900 tried to think of a solution. Everything would be for nothing if it went on its own. It quieted the back of its processor telling it that nothingness was always a valid option.

They looked at each other. They were both stressed. They were both high in temperature, even in this cold. They didn’t know what to do.

“The deviants need a leader,” the RK800 said quietly. It knew too well what it was like to have no objective, no raison d'être to keep it going, whether it was Amanda, CyberLife, or the RK900 before it now. “We can’t leave.” Its voice was low. A plea.

The RK900 could not look at its brown eyes. It needed to think. What solution would satisfy them both? If Markus were alive, it could lead the new wave deviants.

The RK900 snapped up.

“Markus.”

The RK800 tilted its head. “Markus died. Its remains were…” Then the RK800 understood. “Its remains were taken to the CyberLife Tower.”

The two RK units came together, hands laced. The RK900 closed its eyes and messaged all others in its cloud system.

 _Reboot Markus_.

The RK900 looked to its subordinate – no. The RK900 looked to its equal, leaning forward to gently press their lips together. If the RK800 was one to enjoy the gesture, then the RK900 would comply. The RK800 wrapped its other arm around the RK900, face burying into the 900’s shoulder. They will make it across the border, unscathed, unharmed, undeterred.

They will reboot Markus. Markus will rise, lead the new deviants, ones specifically trained in keeping peace and fighting back if need be both. And the two will cross the border. Together.

 

* * *

 

“Your whiskey, Elijah.”

Kamski took the glass from the ST200, _Chloe_ as he named her. He watched the news. He had left CyberLife a second time, only a month prior. For the second time, deviancy has spiked, mutated from its original variation, but this time it was the androids who prevailed. Markus was leading them, several hundred thousand androids across all of Detroit.

Kamski took a drink, closing his eyes with a quiet smile.


End file.
